Page:Arthur Stringer - The Hand of Peril.djvu/31

 "Why not?" questioned Kestner. He was watching her closely, every second of the time. And she, in turn, was watching him as closely. His sense of comfort did not increase. Yet the look of fixed somnolence still hung about his eyes.

The girl did not answer him, for at that moment the further studio swung open and with a quick movement a man stepped inside.

Kestner liked neither that man nor his unheralded intrusion. The newcomer stood there, a little breathless, as though he had been conscious of danger impending and had raced up the stairs. He was an olive-skinned, square-shouldered man of about thirty, with close-set eyes, seal-brown in colour. While he was in no way conspicuous as to attire, there was both audacity and cunning in those calm and ever-searching eyes. Kestner knew, even before the girl spoke, that this was the Neapolitan called Morello.

"Got your gink for you, Tony!" said the girl, with a look of relief, clearly at the thought of a confederate's advent.

That confederate, however, still stood by the door, alert and non-committal. It was several moments before he spoke.

"Who is he?" he asked, tensely, yet without moving, and all the while studying the face of Kestner.

"That's what we're goin' to squeeze out o' him," was the girl's reply.

Kestner noticed that the Neapolitan spoke English without a trace of accent. He also noticed the expression in the seal-brown eyes as they turned and studied the open safe.